


Work of Art

by anastasiapullingteeth



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 17:20:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1477774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anastasiapullingteeth/pseuds/anastasiapullingteeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire thought it was just Jehan modeling for him, until he had that stupid dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Work of Art

Grantaire opened the door and walked back to the table where he had all the art supplies, without sparing a glance at the young man who had just entered. It wasn’t the model he wanted; not the blue eyes he was seeking, nor the Greek profile that he adored and, even though the hair was blond, it lacked the curls through which Grantaire longed to tangle his long fingers. It wasn’t the model he wanted, but it was the closest he’ll ever get.

"Take off your shirt and sit on the stool." he ordered, finally selecting a piece of charcoal and analyzing it thoroughly before his eyes.

"Charming." Jehan said, without a hint of reproach as he obeyed willingly.

His pale fingers traced one by one the buttons of his shirt and gently placed it on the back of the nearest chair. He sat on the stool and winced for the hardness and discomfort of the wood.

Grantaire walked up to him and grabbed his jaw to accommodate his face in the position he wanted -facing to the left, chin up, neck straight-, never looking him in the eyes. Carefully, he undid the long braid Jehan wore that evening, allowing the golden hair fell freely down the back and shoulders of the young man.

"Relax, this will take some time." he added, returning to his own stool in front of the canvas and drawing the first lines.

~ ~ ~

The session lasted for a couple of hours, both in complete silence except for the constant rubbing of charcoal on fabric. At first, Grantaire had thought to mimic the figure of the one he really wanted to paint, but soon gave in to the delicate curves of the body in front of him. The line of his shoulders, his thin arms, the plain of his belly. Finally, he allowed himself to observe Jehan’s face and capture it on canvas.

Jehan was smiling. Smiling despite the fatigue and boredom, despite the discomfort and silence. Grantaire was about to tell him to delete that face, to change that smile into an expression of righteous fury, but the curvature of these pink lips was captivating, the lines around the eyes, charming, and the brightness of the brown eyes, seductive. Without a word, he set himself out to transfer that beauty into charcoal.

"Okay, we’re done here. You can move now, I’ll finish the details later."

Jehan stretched his arms, loosing up the knots of tension that had formed on his back; he took his shirt and waistcoat and dressed silently.

"Can I see it?" the poet asked innocently.

"Isn’t finished yet."

"It’s okay."

Grantaire shrugged. Jehan walked to the canvas and ran his large eyes over it; the smile was still there, this time almost imperceptible, and Grantaire did what he could to stop seeing him, stop watching so intently, but couldn’t. Jehan’s voice pulled him from his reverie.

"I like it" he said. "You always manage to make everything look more beautiful than it really is."

"You’re beautiful already, I only put it on canvas."

Jehan didn’t blush, just bowed his head in a sign of appreciation and placed a hand on Grantaire’s arm. “Let me know when it’s finished. And do not hesitate to come to me when you need a model.”

That said, Jehan left the room, closing the door behind him. Grantaire took a bottle of wine and went back to work, adding paint here and there to highlight the beauty of the image. It was past two o’clock when he dropped into bed, the bottle of wine empty and a completely finished oil painting.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire awoke hours later startled, his clothes and sheets completely wet. At first he thought it was urine, unable to control his bladder under the influence of alcohol, but when he ran a hand through his black curls, he discovered that they were wet with sweat. One look at the painting to remember why he’d woken up so drastically.

The image of smiling pink lips flooded his mind, his heart raced as he remembered their softness after he’d kissed them, the heat they left on his own lips so vivid that for a moment he thought it had really happened. With a leap, he rose from the bed and ran to the door, pulled it hard and looked around the hall at both ends.

Empty.

There was no sign of people or sounds of steps and no sign that a 5’5 man with long blond hair and brown eyes had been there in the last minute. Grantaire swallowed hard and ran a hand over his forehead, inhaling deeply to restore calm. He couldn’t catch up on sleep all night, doing little figurines with the empty sheets of his old sketchbook, unable to get that kiss that never happened out of his mind.

~ ~ ~

During the following days, Grantaire avoided at all costs go to the café Musain where he knew Jehan would be. He had covered the painting with a sheet after feeling unable to look at it without remembering that disturbing dream, but it was Thursday, the day Enjolras gathered them all to discuss their plans for revolution, and Grantaire had never missed a meeting.

He was late, as was his custom, awkwardly entering the back room and occupying the table in the far corner. His eyes were fixed on Enjolras, but his head didn’t stop thinking about the boy who was sitting a few tables away from him, between Bahorel and Courfeyrac, who bit his lip every time Enjolras spoke of starting a rebellion. When the meeting was over, he did his best to leave the place without being detected; wasn’t fast enough.

"Is it finished now?" Jehan asked, walking with him throughout the door.

Grantaire’s heart raced for some inexplicable reason and was unable to make a sound. Jehan watched him expectantly, that adorable smile back to his lips and purple flowers braided in his hair. Grantaire’s eyes dropped to his mouth and in a desperate act, he leaned forward until there was no space between them and his own; Jehan met him halfway.

Grantaire put a hand on Jehan’s neck behind his left ear, and licked the poet’s lower lip. Jehan moaned, clenching his hands into the fabric of Grantaire’s jacket. The artist was the first to break the kiss.

"Sorry, I shouldn’t- I … I’m sorry."

Without looking back, he returned to his room and locked himself with every intention of never leaving until he could clear his mind.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire paced in front of Jehan’s painting, still deciding whether to expose it in the art room or rip it with a kitchen knife. The second option was tempting, he could finally get rid of that image that was torturing him. Maybe he could even ask Jehan to model for him again, this time completely naked, have him back in his room, only the two of them-

No, what was he thinking? A stupid dream and a meaningless kiss and he had already fallen for-

Oh, fuck.

That was it, wasn’t it? There was no other explanation.

He had fallen for Jean Prouvaire.


End file.
